210 Tidings of war, the hurrying scout replied; Then the sharp pipe[203] with shriller summons blew, And held the blood-red arrow high in view.[204] CHIEF.
Where speed the foes?
INDIAN.
Along the southern main, Have passed the vultures of accursed Spain.
CHIEF.
Ruin pursue them on the distant flood, And be their deadly portion--blood for blood! INDIAN.
When, round and red, the moon shall next arise, The chiefs attend the midnight sacrifice 220 In Encol's wood, where the great wizard dwells, Who wakes the dead man by his thrilling spells; Thee,[205] Ulmen of the Mountains, they command To lift the hatchet for thy native land; Whilst in dread circle, round the sere-wood smoke, The mighty gods of vengeance they invoke; And call the spirits of their fathers slain, To nerve their lifted arm, and curse devoted Spain.
So spoke the scout of war;--and o'er the dew, Onward along the craggy valley, flew.

230 Then the stern warrior sang his song of death-- And blew his conch, that all the glens beneath Echoed, and rushing from the hollow wood, Soon at his side three hundred warriors stood.
WARRIOR.
Children, who for his country dares to die?
Three hundred brandished spears shone to the sky: We perish, or we leave our country free; Father, our blood for Chili and for thee! The mountain-chief essayed his club to wield, And shook the dust indignant from the shield.

240 Then spoke:-- O Thou! that with thy lingering light Dost warm the world, till all is hushed in night; I look upon thy parting beams, O sun! And say, ev'n thus my course is almost run.
When thou dost hide thy head, as in the grave, And sink to glorious rest beneath the wave, Dost thou, majestic in repose, retire, Below the deep, to unknown worlds of fire! Yet though thou sinkest, awful, in the main, 250 The shadowy moon comes forth, and all the train Of stars, that shine with soft and silent light, Making so beautiful the brow of night.
Thus, when I sleep within the narrow bed, The light of after-fame around shall spread; The sons of distant Ocean, when they see The grass-green heap beneath the mountain tree, And hear the leafy boughs at evening wave, Shall pause and say, There sleep in dust the brave! All earthly hopes my lonely heart have fled! 260 Stern Guecubu,[206] angel of the dead, Who laughest when the brave in pangs expire; Whose dwelling is beneath the central fire Of yonder burning mountain; who hast passed O'er my poor dwelling, and with one fell blast Scattered my summer-leaves that clustered round, And swept my fairest blossoms to the ground; Angel of dire despair, oh! come not nigh, Nor wave thy red wings o'er me where I lie; But thou, O mild and gentle spirit! stand, 270 Angel[207] of hope and peace, at my right hand, (When blood-drops stagnate on my brow) and guide My pathless voyage o'er the unknown tide, To scenes of endless joy, to that fair isle, Where bowers of bliss, and soft savannahs smile: Where my forefathers oft the fight renew, And Spain's black visionary steeds pursue; Where, ceased the struggles of all human pain, I may behold thee--thee, my son, again! He spoke, and whilst at evening's glimmering close 280 The distant mist, like the gray ocean, rose, With patriot sorrows swelling at his breast, He sank upon a jagguar's hide to rest.
'Twas night: remote on Caracalla's bay, Valdivia's army, hushed in slumber, lay.
Around the limits of the silent camp, Alone was heard the steed's patroling tramp From line to line, whilst the fixed sentinel Proclaimed the watch of midnight--All is well! Valdivia dreamed of millions yet untold, 290 Villrica's gems, and El Dorado's gold! What different feelings, by the scene impressed, Rose in sad tumult o'er Lautaro's breast! On the broad ocean, where the moonlight slept, Thoughtful he turned his waking eyes, and wept, And whilst the thronging forms of memory start, Thus holds communion with his lonely heart: Land of my fathers, still I tread your shore, And mourn the shade of hours that are no more; Whilst night-airs, like remembered voices, sweep, 300 And murmur from the undulating deep.
Was it thy voice, my father! Thou art dead, The green rush waves on thy forsaken bed.
Was it thy voice, my sister! Gentle maid, Thou too, perhaps, in the dark cave art laid; Perhaps, even now, thy spirit sees me stand A homeless stranger in my native land; Perhaps, even now, along the moonlight sea, It bends from the blue cloud, remembering me! Land of my fathers! yet, oh yet forgive, 310 That with thy deadly enemies I live: The tenderest ties (it boots not to relate) Have bound me to their service, and their fate; Yet, whether on Peru's war-wasted plain, Or visiting these sacred shores again, Whate'er the struggles of this heart may be, Land of my fathers, it shall beat for thee! [193] A volcano in Chili.
[194] The chrysomela is a beautiful insect of which the young women of Chili make necklaces.
[195] The parrot butterfly, peculiar to this part of America, the largest and most brilliant of its kind .-- _Papilio psittacus._ [196] A most beautiful climbing plant.

The vine is of the size of packthread: it climbs on the trees without attaching itself to them: when it reaches the top, it descends perpendicularly; and as it continues to grow, it extends itself from tree to tree, until it offers to the eye a confused tissue, exhibiting some resemblance to the rigging of a ship .-- _Molina._ [197] I chanced once to lodge in a village named Upec by the Frenchmen: there, in the night, I heard _those birds, not singing_, but making a lamentable noise.

I saw the barbarians most attentive, and, being ignorant of the whole matter, reproved their folly.